We Could Hide Away In Daylight
by harrythe
Summary: And maybe, just maybe, he'll whisper that she never has to be alone. (Also posted on AO3, but like awhile ago.)


People always say that New York City never sleeps, and perhaps they're right. But it's some nights like these, in the wee hours of the morning, that she thinks that maybe they're wrong. Maybe New York never sleeps, but it certainly rests, when night is turning into day, and the sky is no longer black, but fading into pinky blue hues that she wishes she could capture with her paintbrush. Nights where the streets are quiet, and no one is in sight, and the world feels so vast and she feels so small, and it's her world.

It's times like these, when her mom is working yet another extremely early shift at a job she took to make ends meet, and her stepfather is away on an assignment, that she walks the streets of New York, and imagines a different life. A seemingly better life. One with a mother who loves her job, and has reasonable hours, and maybe a stepfather who doesn't have to travel, and a father who didn't abandon her. Sometimes she wishes she had a life like that of her best friend, a life with two parents whose love is still as real and as pure as the day they said 'I do', and a younger sibling to teach and guide, and a boyfriend who dotes on her like the stars shine out of her eyes.

It's nights like this, where she wishes she wasn't so alone.

There are the other nights too, when the streets of New York seem to pulsate with energy, people floating from one party to the next, the city itself almost feeling alive. Nights where someone joins her on her walks, and she doesn't feel so alone. Where the hand slipping into hers feels warm and comfortable, and she can imagine a future. One with a husband that never leaves, and never wavers, and maybe some kids, and an art studio, and a white picket fence.

They never seem to break the silence, comfortable in the way that their hands fit together, in the way that it feels like the whole world is at their fingertips, pulsing with energy, and she just wants to run. Though it's never been clear if she'll run toward or away from something. And maybe before, she would have run away, but with the hand holding hers, maybe she can finally run towards something.

Or maybe she never says anything because if she breaks the silence, he'll disappear, like a ghost, or the wind. Because she's never been able to keep anything good in her life. Everyone always leaves. It's the mantra she whispers to herself, to keep herself from falling, to keep her standing. To keep her grounded in the reality that someone with the last name Hart never gets anything good in life. The only thing they get is a broken heart, and isn't that ironic? A broken heart for a Hart. She can have all the friends in the world, but she can never fall in love. Because falling in love means getting hurt, and she learned a long time ago to guard her heart.

And maybe she should stop this, maybe she should be more bothered by the fact that he's practically family, because her stepfather is all but related to him, and he's the uncle of her best friend, but she can't find it in herself to care, can't find it in herself to give up what some days feels like the only good thing going in her life. The one thing where she doesn't have to be Maya Hart, class slack off, and best friend and confident, defender of the innocent, protector of the fragile, and she can just be Maya. Maya, who thinks hopes and wishes are for suckers, and Maya who draws, and knows that she'll never be good enough, because she can never have a good thing. Good things never come to the people who were left behind. And if her hand grips his just a bit tighter, well than that's nobody's business but hers. Because maybe she's not willing to let this go.

Maybe one day she'll tell him how she feels, how some days her fingers itch to reach for a hand that isn't there, how it feels like a secret building inside her, and it's all she can do not to blurt it out. How some days, she longs to run away, because if she's the one who leaves, he can never leave her.

How, even though she's surrounded by people, she always feels alone.

And maybe he already knows, can tell by the way her heartbeats through her fingertips, resting against the back of his hand, pounding out a rhythm that matches the pulse of the city. And maybe some days he holds her hand just that little bit tighter, keeping her grounded and steady, and gives her a reason to stay. A reason to hope that maybe she won't be left. And maybe it's in those moments just before they part, when they've reached her door, and she should go in, that he looks down at her, and smiles that little smile of his, the one that she only ever sees directed at her, and she hopes. She hopes and she dreams, and she does everything that she promised herself that she would never do.

They'll never be Cory and Topanga, and they'll certainly never be Riley and Lucas, but they're Josh and Maya. They're themselves, and maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

And maybe, one night in the far distant future, she'll let him join her when the streets are quiet, and dawn is just beginning to break. And she'll tell him of all her fears, and all her hopes. And maybe just maybe, she won't feel so alone. And maybe, just maybe, when the streets are quiet, and dawn is just beginning to break, he'll kiss her softly, as the sun rises over the buildings, and maybe, just maybe, she'll learn to believe in herself, and maybe, just maybe, he'll whisper that she never has to be alone.


End file.
